


Is Better Than None

by orphan_account



Series: Fullmetal Fortnight 2014 [16]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Briggs, Established Relationship, F/F, Post-Canon, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 03:21:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1330015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Tea?” inquired Lieutenant Colonel Miles. “Coffee? Perhaps something mildly alcoholic? Not enough to cause concern on the job, of course, but to take the edge off of such a <em>tense</em> meeting.” Though he enunciated his words with his usual tranquil crispness, Captain Hawkeye could detect the faintest overtones of an iciness that bordered on condescension. Straightening her back against the hard chair across the desk from where the presence of General Armstrong would normally manifest, Hawkeye frowned. If one could liken the appearance of a pet to its master, then one could certainly liken the demeanor of a lieutenant or second-in-command to zir commanding officer.</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t mind coffee, sir. Thank you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Is Better Than None

**Author's Note:**

> Written for FMA Week 2014. Prompt 10-B: "OTPs". And what better way to handle this loose prompt than one of my absolute favourite new OTPs?
> 
> A direct sequel to "A Kiss with a Fist".
> 
> Unedited/unbeta'd/etc. Enjoy!

“Tea?” inquired Lieutenant Colonel Miles. “Coffee? Perhaps something mildly alcoholic? Not enough to cause concern on the job, of course, but to take the edge off of such a _tense_ meeting.” Though he enunciated his words with his usual tranquil crispness, Captain Hawkeye could detect the faintest overtones of an iciness that bordered on condescension. Straightening her back against the hard chair across the desk from where the presence of General Armstrong would normally manifest, Hawkeye frowned. If one could liken the appearance of a pet to its master, then one could certainly liken the demeanor of a lieutenant or second-in-command to zir commanding officer.

“I wouldn’t mind coffee, sir. Thank you.”

Miles smiled, tightly, and exited, leaving Hawkeye alone with the plate of gingersnaps that had greeted her upon her initial foray.

Hesitantly she lifted up one gingersnap—vaguely in the shape of a newt—and regarded it for a moment before replacing it on the tray. As she brushed the crumbs from her palm, the door opened.

Armstrong strode in.

A flurry of snow unstuck from her grown-out forelock to float effortlessly through the air and alight on the tiled floor only to melt in the heartbeat after.

Instantly Hawkeye rose from the chair. Banged her knee on the rim of the desk. “Olive—”

Armstrong slammed her sheathed sword into the ground. “I understand that things may have been different under the command of an absolutely  incompetent superior officer who has _solely_ been promoted for his extranatural ability to decimate the highest percentage of humanity possible with the small given _effort_ —and budget—possible.” Armstrong inhaled; Hawkeye slowly returned to the chair. Gripped her knees with her curved hands. “But this isn’t Central City, where the most difficult enemy of the day is paperwork, and it takes reinforcements from the North and the East to manage the smallest of invasions.” She curled her lip.

Hawkeye parted her lips to speak. Pressed them taut again. “I apologise, sir.”

Inclining her head ever so slightly at Hawkeye’s words, Armstrong allowed a grim smile to cross her face; Hawkeye wondered if that would prove a practised motion or a genuine reaction. “On a serious note, Captain, I cannot say that I am familiar with the absolute _chaos_ of Central, but I shall have none of it. Because of your actions—” Hawkeye drew herself further. “—we could _well_ have lost lives. At the very least, an entire team was out _looking for you_ instead of assisting with the efforts. You know the adage: A single grain of wheat can tip the scales.”

Instead of correcting her, Hawkeye merely lifted up a hand in salute, right angle of the elbow and all.

“Had you kept to your assigned schedule, and had you _reported_ exactly where you were at the time of the beginning of the crisis, the wasted effort on the part of both the rescue team and on _my_ concern about you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Armstrong narrowed her eyes. Hawkeye had the distinct sense that the general could somehow peel her skin off of her muscle and her muscle off of her bone, split the white open and hollow out the marrow, replace the innards of her skeleton with a coil of chilling guilt. That the general could glance at the ribbons of marrow cored from her bones, could read the captain as easily as an astronomer the stars or a linguist a book in zir native tongue.

Biting her tongue, Hawkeye kept herself from speaking, from moving, from in any way distracting the general, who at last exhaled softly, silently, the only sign of her sigh visible in the faint slope of her shoulders and the slight shift of her chest. She pursed her lips. A thought raced through Hawkeye’s mind— _utterly kissable_ —before the accompanying sense of guilt bore down upon her, slick and heavy as a spring monsoon.

“I cannot pretend to be unaffected, Captain.” Through Armstrong’s professional façade, Hawkeye heard traces of— _emotion_. The knowledge of this chink in Armstrong’s normally impenetrable armoured troubled her, frightened her, that _she_ alone could destroy the aegis of Amestris from the inside out. The granddaughter of the Führer, the best friend of the Flame Alchemist and most dangerous man in the country, the lover of the Ice Queen and current most likely candidate to become the Führer-elect: the power rested in her hands capable of lifting a sniper rifle to her shoulder and peering through a scope at the smiling child’s face of innocence.

She could pull the trigger. But somehow she wasn’t certain how detrimental that would be.

Armstrong continued forward; Hawkeye listened: “I know what they call me. The Ice Queen of Briggs. And I pride myself on that rationality; if the entire world goes to smoke and ash, _someone_ has to stand firm. _I_ must stand firm.” Her grip on the sword hilt slackened. Drawing the weapon to her hip, she stalked to her chair in three long strides. Sat down, heavily, as if she were transmuted from the stuff of neutron stars. To some extent, Hawkeye would argue, the description of _star_ had grown entirely apt. “Captain.” Her voice had softened. “There are _very_ few reasons in this world that I would not be at my peak mental performance.”

“And I am one of them. _Sir_.”

Armstrong took a gingersnap. The cookie lived up to its name: The general snapped the bird-shaped confection’s head, crunched the ginger between her teeth. “You didn’t take a gingersnap.” Neither a question nor an accusation. But behind the flat observation lurked a certain measure of curiosity.

“No, sir.”

“So, you failed the guilt test. Why.”

Hawkeye leaned imperceptibly back in her chair, scarcely enough to her lower back to protest against the new angle. “I suppose,” she answered, more to herself, “that I recognised my mistakes.”

Armstrong uncrossed her legs. “If you’re to remain stationed in Briggs, even informally on a vacation like this, I need you to swear to _obey_ the laws.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There is a disparity between innovation in the heat of battle and wreaking havoc.” Normally that elicit a familiar chuckle from the captain, but now she kept quiet. In Armstrong’s blink, Hawkeye could see her approval. “I’ve seen the Flame Alchemist’s tactics. They would fail in Briggs.” From the time she’d spent by the general’s side, Hawkeye heard the underlying argument: _They work for a colonel; they function perfectly well on a small scale. But for a general in charge of a fifth of the Amestrisian army, order must be absolute. For a group beyond the golden measure of a hundred and fifty, order and disciple_ must _exist_. “Then.”

Hawkeye stood from the chair, carefully now so as not so much as _tremble_ the desk. Feet apart. Spine erect. Snapping her arm like a bird’s wing she saluted. Firm, strong, proud to serve. “General Armstrong, sir! I promise upon my life that I will obey your orders to the letter and the spirit! Even against my own good sense, I _will_ obey you!”

Her words echoed; her timbre did not tremble as much as it rumbled between the walls. When she finished she felt the shiver arch from the snapping-shut of her jaws until her feet quivered in her thick furred boots.

Armstrong studied her. Hawkeye tensed her tendons, locked her joints, and then the general left her chair. Paced towards the door that led not to the hallways of Briggs but to her innermost quarters. She paused by the doorway. Without turning her head, she noted, “Colonel, you can put away the tray. Tea, coffee, what have you. Thank you for making it, but we won’t be needing it.”

Hawkeye glanced behind her; holding the tray out in front of himself, Miles sighed good-naturedly. “Yes, sir.”

The captain raised an eyebrow in his direction; a slight smile teasing his mouth, Miles nodded towards Armstrong’s threshold-straddling form. The general waved a white-gloved hand. “Coming, Captain Hawkeye?”

She blinked. Then: “Oh. Yes. Yes, _sir_.”

“Oh, and past the door—” Armstrong stepped through; the edges of her greatcoat fluttered. “—you can call me _Olive_.”


End file.
